In a town in southernmost SicilyLived a family too proud to be poorIn the year that fever took father awayThey hastened for American shoresNow a mother and her son are standing in lineIt's a cold day on Ellis IsleAnd they look to the Statue of LibertyFor the boy we have American life

Ong is a Laotian refugeeHe works in the audio tradeThe smoke from flux is filling his lungsHe's earning minimum wageSpending spare time down onSan Pablo aveOnce a week gets a woman for the nightAnd he writes home tales of prosperityFor the boy we have American life

Bob is an unemployed veteranBorn and bred in the South BronxHe's living off the streets down in east L.A.Residing in a cardboard boxNow he plays a little guit and he has a small dogSearching for aluminum cansAnd he hold on tight to his dignityHe was born into American life